नभ नील काया वाले पंछी

 नभ नील काया वाले पंछी

जब तुम उड़ते आसमान में

क्या तुम्हें लगता है 

कि इस नील गगन के आँचल में

तुम छुपन छुपाई खेल रहे हों

जैसे माँ की गोद में एक

नन्हा बालक इठलाता इतराता

अठखेलियां खाता और 

उसी के रंग में रंग जाता।

Festival of lights

Diwali was a very special day

as we would often see 

a very jovial side of our 

otherwise serious and 

workaholic father, 

as he carried a tray full of 

earthen Diyas

guiding us to create 

beautiful patterns brightening 

our mom’s painstakingly 

made Rangoli of Ganesh ji. 

And, lit up the sparklers 

handling them carefully to us, 

keeping an eye on 

my brother and I.

He would light up 

ground spinning chakris, 

Flower pots, 

garlands of crackers

and launched rockets

that bloomed into fiery flowers

across the firmament

as we stood mesmerised

at this fiesta of lights. 

Superstitions

Before every exam

we would partake

spoons full of 

yogurt mixed with curd

believing it would bring 

us unprecedented luck

carrying our luckiest coin, 

a talisman, a totem object or 

Durga Chalisa in our wallet, 

we step out gingerly

avoiding any black cat, 

single mynah or a barking dog

while our eyes seek 

darshana of a street cleaner

whose long broom can 

not only clean away the dirt 

but also the cobwebs 

from the path to 

Our good luck and fortune.

Supernatural

I always looked forward to

to sleep overs 

with cousins and friends 

as it meant no sleeping at all

but a night full of 

spine-chilling horror stories, 

some heard, some read, 

some cooked up on the go, 

mostly apocryphal 

being projected as real 

spooky incidents that 

happened around a relative. 

And, then came the turn of 

seance, often played on 

a home-made Ouija Board, 

as the coin-planchette 

moved wildly owing to 

perhaps individual mischief 

or our collective anxiety, 

leading us to such frenzy 

that we would start believing

in our own hoax,

scared but excited, 

Trying to sleep,  

exhausted after imagining  

entities of all varieties 

lurking in the cupboard 

or under our bed or 

perhaps the dark corridor 

leading to the kitchen 

and bathroom, 

refusing to leave the room 

even for drinking water 

or to attend Nature’s call. 

The first dosa of my life

 

Unlike many girl children, 

I was indulged so very much 

by my doting Baba 

who was my personal genie 

and conjured up things,

as I demanded, 

That purple and black 

beaded hair band, 

tikki chaat with chhole, 

a very gaudy red clutch, 

a pair of toe rings which 

I wore in my fingers, 

Orange-flavoured ice lollies, 

my first ever Barbie doll 

much to the chagrin of 

my Amma and Mom. 

Hordes of bows and arrows 

from the Dussehra mela, 

It just went on and on. 

But that one thing that 

stands out among these 

indulgences, 

was the first ever taste 

of mouth-wateringly delicious 

Masala dosa, 

served with a delectable 

coconut chutney 

and tangy sambar,

unlike anything I had eaten 

in my precocious six years, 

starting a love affair 

of a life time 

with this crispy, 

meltingly divine, 

ghee roasted crepe.  

bicycle

 

Trying to up my

style quotient 

as a nerdy but

impulsive teenager, 

I goaded my parents 

into buying me a 

noir-colored typical boys’

cycle for going to 

my science tuitions

rather than a sensible 

Cross-bar free, narrow 

- tyred feminine bicycle

in perhaps a powdery 

pink or purple.  

I didn’t realise then 

how painful each pedal’s

push would be 

and the sheer hard work 

I would have to do 

to ride this boys bike 

with thick tyres

and yet not let it 

be obvious to everyone. 

 

Power cut

Certainly everything about 

the past was not hunky-dory 

Our biggest pet peeve 

those days 

were those long nights

of forced vigil, 

when the power cuts 

so rampant, 

robbed us of our perfect 

restful sleep.

We would walk up and down

the terrace 

on those hot sticky nights

when the mosquitos buzzing 

in our ears 

further salted our wounds 

and the only relief came 

from the constant motion

and we walked up and down 

like automated zombies, 

singing songs, playing 

midnight Antakshari in 

voices hoarse, devoid of sleep.

Wishing fervently and 

disturbing the gods for this 

small inconvenience, 

and tying the corner of clothes 

in whimsical superstitions.

Hoping, walking, fighting irritation, 

singing, hoping, walking, singing!

Now exhausted, collapsing 

in cane chairs or charpai, 

trying to fan ourselves with 

Palm leaf hand pankhis. 

Dolls

Under the purple haze 

of a briefly blooming 

Jacaranda tree, 

Before my famous feminist 

consciousness awoke in me 

and I started seeing everything 

from this perspective, 

we married off our dolls, 

staging the mandap 

with fires of marigold petals

and as our picture perfect Barbie 

lovingly named as Mrignayani,

in a lehanga made up of 

my mom’s saree fall, 

matching with a little bodice 

Fashioned out of a golden ribbon, 

tied the knot with a very 

desi Ken, named Siddharth, 

in patched up kurta dhoti 

Sewn lovingly by Amma on 

her Usha sewing machine 

and as the guests began 

to feast on bhelpuri 

faintly resembling the biryani, 

it was the halwa made in a 

toy wok, 

A mix of water and 

glucose biscuits

whose spoon fulls were

shyly offered by the 

blushing bride to the 

smug groom. 

And then, the moms began to sing 

the auspicious bidai geet

and cried copious tears 

as the bride sat in the 

groom’s car bidding farewell 

To one and all. 

Picnic

Picnic in our childhood

invariably meant going 

to our kuldevi’s temple 

on an Ashtami coinciding 

with the weekend. 

Carrying ‘sawa mani’ prasad

in the form of besan burfi, 

a gesture of gratitude 

for the fulfilment 

of an old or a new wish, 

along with a large tiffin 

filled with aalu gobhi, 

Palak pooris and my favourite 

gatta curry made 

me drool as we could barely 

keep our minds off the 

pickled peppers and Bikaner Sev,

while the elders performed 

the Aarti to the Devi. 

Later as we sat after sipping 

hot cardamom tea from 

the big thermos, 

it was the distribution of 

Prasad to the entire village 

as we walked in the loose

sand of the dunes, 

avoiding thorns, 

eyeing the gentle camels 

resting under the Khejri trees,

that the true appreciation of 

our roots and heritage hit home. 

Letter box

Those days when the 

STD calls were prohibitively

expensive and emails were 

not even heard of,

 Each time my father 

got transferred 

from one city to another, 

it broke our hearts so, 

as we learnt to adjust 

painfully in the new school 

under the scrutiny of 

curious teachers 

and suffering the non-chalance 

of fellow students,

aching for the old friends, 

waiting every afternoon 

as we returned home 

to open the mailbox ,

hoping desperately 

that we would find an 

envelope with our names 

written in familiar handwriting.

Science Vs Humanities

My best friend and I 

hated physics 

which we were coaxed 

to study like all the 

bright kids who cared 

about their careers. 

Subtle and not so covert

suggestions, nudges, 

guidance and opinions 

of everyone ranging from

the next door didi, 

Papa’s younger colleague, 

to the nosy auntie who 

even predicted a marriage 

with the betel leaf seller 

if we failed to study science,

convinced us to go against 

our aptitudes, our own desires, 

but filled us with a listlessness, 

a despair and 

even a nameless terror 

as the board exams 

approached.

Chanting hanuman chalisa,

we barely scraped by,

vowing to ourselves 

that we will have nothing 

to with this subject whatsoever.

But as we sat in our 

first Literature and history classes, 

and reading the odes of Keats 

and about the perfection of 

the right angles of Harappa roads, 

it felt like the perfect homecoming. 

Much later, preparing for 

the UPSC exam, 

we met this young man 

whose optional of physics 

made us roll our eyes 

and double over in laughter, 

Not realising then 

that this young engineer 

with physics optional 

will not only make it 

to the hallowed grounds 

but also the become my husband

and my aunt was proved wrong. 

Holika Dahan

Sitting around the bonfire

made up of cow dung, 

dry logs, spools of 

cotton threads, turmeric 

and Akshat rice, 

we listen to the story of 

Holika, the cold blooded 

ogress of an aunt, 

with absolutely no qualms 

in trying to burn her 

tiny nephew in the fire

of their unbridled egos.

We heave a sigh of relief

as the adrenaline rush 

subsides and the heart

stops pounding in our 

narrow chests 

as little Prahalad is saved 

yet again by the grace 

of the almighty as always, 

promising inwardly 

to be better kids, 

to eat our greens everyday,

to read more books,

to be more obedient,

to do our homework diligently, 

to not throw paper planes in class 

and to pray every day

So that lord Vishnu 

would extend his divine 

grace to ordinary kids like us.

A love song

Rainforest green and earth brown 

That’s how I first saw you

your goofy laughter,

our scintillating conversations

like cascading waterfalls

booming and joyous 

made me oblivious of 

other dimensions 

that made you fully human. 

I didn’t see how the 

temperature could drop suddenly 

to turn a forest into a desert, 

didn’t anticipate the 

Moon-like waxing and waning

that made me grope for straws 

on those dark nights. 

Didn’t know then the fights 

could be like simmering volcanoes, 

erupting, destroying, settling 

and yet solidifying. 

But I also didn’t realise that 

on cold wintry times, 

after all the fury and hailstorm 

you would be the bonfire 

to comfort me with your warm silences. 

So, after almost two decades, 

I know that you are the Sun

of my Solar system 

and also that constant lamp

that lights up my path 

on those moonless nights

making me no longer afraid.

Janmashtami

 

In the temples lit 

with the fairy lights

and hundreds of 

earthen lamps, 

we trudge along 

the long serpentine

queues, 

drunk in the love 

of the little Kanha

who after being 

born in the prison 

and a long perilous 

journey across 

the surging Yamuna, 

now sleeps in peace, 

dreaming of the 

new ways he would 

surprise Ma Yashoda. 

While the devotees 

after a full day of fast, 

now repast on the 

Prasad of Dhaniya panjiri 

and Makhan Mishri, 

wanting to see the 

the expanse of the universe 

in the grains of sand 

in the puckered mouth 

of baby Krishna. 

Buying saree in Kolkotta

Crisscrossing the lanes of 

the joyous city

sampling phuchkas by dozens, 

marvelling at the bindi Patta 

being sold for less than a rupee, 

Sporting the shankha and pola, 

eyeliner on my upper eyelids, 

I went to look for a perfect

Tangail cotton saree 

that would transform me

in to a Durga - 

alluring, beautiful

and truly valiant 

to slay the demons, 

always full of mischief

lurking deep within me. 

Gobichettipalayam

If the heaven 

were to be painted 

in monochromes alone, 

It would definitely 

be in the hues of 

Gobichettipalyam’s green

as the shamrock green of 

the young manjal plants

stand defiant to the 

emerald hue of paddy, 

which give way rather

deferentially to the 

cadmium green of 

those coconut fronds

which long to merge 

with the pine greens 

Of the not so distant Nilgiris. 

Good old Doordarshan

 

The present generation 

deluged with the sheer plentitude

 of mind-numbing options,

would perhaps never 

know the excitement of 

waiting with bated breaths 

for the entertainment that 

came in small doses. 

When the antenna correction duty 

was as exciting as a warrior 

going to the war to 

set all the wrongs right. 

When the spate of advertising films 

irritated but tantalised us 

as we crooned the jingles

throughout the day.

When Ramayana united 

the motley neighbourhood 

and our house filled with 

Dahi Bhalla, jackfruit curry, 

Rajma chawal and idli dosa 

carrying the subtle gratitude 

of the TV watchers 

who thronged our homes 

to watch the epics on 

our new colour TV. 

When Rooh-afzah and nimbu pudina 

was drunk in copious quantities 

as the audience argued over 

the correct course of action 

for the helpless Pandavas. 

When films were a rare treat 

and we wrote little postcards 

requesting for our favourites,

hoping fervently that

our prayers would be heard.

But the most beautiful memory was 

to be wanting to watch it 

together with everyone 

day after day, 

Week after week, 

unlike today, when we scroll 

endlessly on our individual devices, 

trying to find a companionship 

among the strangers 

in the virtual world.

Rock garden, Chandigarh

Returning after thirteen years

along with my super-excited

ten year old, 

I see the rows of same dolls, 

made up of broken bangles.

I also see the same waterfalls, 

Throw coins in the same old well, 

tread on the same cobbled paths

bend to pass through 

the same arched gates and 

sit gingerly on the same swings, 

admiring the same old rocks 

decorated with people’s trash

painstakingly by Nekchand,

and the same old colourful tiles, 

in our very own park Güell, 

The only thing that has changed

is my breathing 

that has become laboured 

as I trail far behind

trying to catch up with 

my nimble-footed son, 

chasing his favourite imaginary monster 

in this phantasmagoric land.

One earth one family

In the early mornings

I would find our backyard 

full of peafowls surrounding 

my frail Baba as he would 

feed them copious amounts of Bajra. 

He would then ensure the 

squirrels too got their 

fair share of over ripe guavas 

as they sauntered up 

and down the tree quickly 

picking their prize

under his watchful gaze. 

I would also see him sitting

on his haunches making 

Alpana like patterns out of

wheat flour so that the ants

too can fill their little tummies. 

And only after feeding 

banana to monkeys, 

Greens to the cows and 

bread to street dogs, 

He would sit for his breakfast, 

beckoning me and my brother

as he fed us with morsels 

of ghee smeared millet chapatis 

and patiently answered 

our questions and explained to us 

the importance of our 

non-human family.

Sibling squabbles

My elder sister 

like all the elder siblings

of the world 

loved to tell me

how I was rescued 

as a baby from a

filthy _talao_ in a 

nondescript town 

of northern India. 

She would laugh

satanically as she 

would remind me 

how everything from

grandparental love 

to the polka dots 

dress was handed down 

to me after her. 

In my dreams, 

I would often see 

her as this witch 

forecasting that from 

my stomach a giant

orange tree would 

grow as I swallowed 

the seeds accidentally. 

As I grew a little older, 

we literally fought

tooth and nails about

the domestic duties 

assigned by our mom. 

She would cajole me

to exchange the post-dinner 

mango shake making duty 

with her floor mopping ones. 

She will coax me into

bets so that the loser

would attend to desert 

Cooler filling duties 

while the winner would 

sleep right next to it.

We called each other 

with the choicest names 

of ogresses from the epics

and even the most banal

ones common among 

unimaginative siblings. 

In short, convinced fully

that she was indeed the

very bane of my life

how I prayed that she

gets married soon. 

Why then, did I cry 

like a baby, clutching

her left-over clothes, 

the day after her wedding.

Moong dal halwa

No heavenly manna 

Or a nectar induced

sweetmeat from a 

royal kitchen could rival

the moong dal halwa 

made by my Amma, 

which she cooked painstakingly for hours

as the daal paste separated

from the desi ghee 

and the sugar syrup 

soaked in the fragrance

of cardamoms fused in, 

moving those frail but 

hardworking arms 

turning the gigantic

spatula in a colossal wok 

on the make shift Chulha

in our weedy backyard. 

Shivcharan : our gardener

 

He just didn’t have 

green fingers

but those of a 

thousand colours

as he commanded 

coral ixoras to grow 

in enviable clusters, 

coaxed the voluminous

Purple Wreath to cling

to the arched trellis 

which in full bloom 

appeared nothing less

than a portal to the 

floral fairyland. 

He demonstrated magic

as Nasturtium leaves

turned water droplets 

Into crystal beads 

and bent the mulberry

laden trees at his will. 

As the pomegranate tree 

presented him with 

the reddest ruby like arils, 

he cajoled the headiest 

redolence out of 

the orange-hearted Parijat. 

The Gulmohur whispered 

coquettishly under his gaze 

while Amaltas showered 

the golden flowers on 

the very path he tread. 

The garden hailed 

him as the king and 

yet this widowed 

childless man 

slept in our garage. 

And as his hands diligently 

polished the terracotta pots, 

he found time to fashion 

the flat stones for our 

game of hopscotch.

Wishful thinking

My eyes are searching

frantically for one more

yellow beaked Myna,

as the pair of them 

would bring me happiness

as opposed to the 

lonely miserable one 

considered harbinger 

Of sorrow. 

The eyes also look for

that red van of India Post

carrying my wishes afar

and the lips would refuse 

to utter a syllable till

the sighting of a black car. 

Also did you know that

A single eye lash often 

sticking to the cheek 

if blown away gently 

while meditating on our

deepest desires, 

can build a rainbow 

to teleport us to 

the very haven of fulfilment.

Clothesline

 

It’s surprising 

that even something 

as mundane as 

a clothesline 

can stir memories 

of a far away home

where mom would 

dunk the washed clothes

in a metal tub filled

with Neem-infused water

before sun-drying them

on clothesline, secured 

with colourful pegs, 

saving us from 

infections and 

summer rashes.

Naankhatai

 

The best of Hindustani

and Parsi gastronomies combine

to create this cookie so 

crumbly and meltingly divine

like the confluence of 

indigenous and exotic flavours 

baked in perfect harmony

on the quaint little coal ovens

being carried on carts

emanating an aroma 

that would thaw any heart

that froze in Delhi’s winters.

Sanchi Stupa

That day it drizzled 

so perfectly 

that it washed away the dirt 

both with in and without. 

the grass gleamed greener, 

so did the happy leaves

and shone brightly 

the weathered sandstone

of this ‘cosmic mountain’.

An absolute peace 

engulfed me 

as I circumambulated 

the balustrades ramp, 

admiring the handiwork 

on the four Toran gates

by those ancient artisans

who with little more than 

chisels and blades

created poetry in stone. 

Perhaps Ashoka’s remorse,

Sunga and Satvahana 

ceaseless ambitions also 

found some succour here. 

The three dances (haiku)

 Kathakali 

We are so enthralled

as a man paints his face green 

to become the God. 

*~*

Purulia Chhau 

The beat of Dhumsa,

as masked Durga slays demon,

louder by second.

 *~*

Kalbelia 

Is it a woman 

Or an enchanted she-snake

writhing on music.

*~*

Six of Cups (a minor arcana card in tarot)

I have possessed 

a deck of tarot cards 

for ages. 

The rational me chides 

the more intuitive one 

and calls it a 

mere hocus-pocus, 

the skulduggery of a 

smooth-talking charlatan. 

While the romantic in me

wants to believe in the 

unfathomable energies 

of the universe, 

in de-tangling our own 

minds to reach 

the elusive truth, 

something intangible 

that can be perceived 

but certainly not with 

the available senses five. 

And I, oscillating between 

the two of us, 

was filled with the memories 

of how I made my bestie

gift me this 

promising to read her future. 

How we used it 

to get attention from 

that crush, 

to be appreciated by 

that snooty senior,

to impress that favourite 

teacher who too, perhaps

torn between rationality 

and the charm of unknown

succumbed to its lure.

And, also to earn lots of

funds in the college Fete 

to be able to donate to

the nearby orphanage.

And, as I fiddled with 

the strangely tantalising deck, 

inscrutably six of cups 

turned up, symbolising 

the hiraeth for 

a lost good time, 

A longing for shared happiness 

and  a yearning for joys 

of  childhood and youth.

Mahasivaratri

There is an image 

etched in my heart,

of an eight year old me

carrying a wicker moon 

basket full of bael patra 

and hibiscus flowers, 

accompanying my stout 

and feisty Amma and 

a very frail but 

kind-hearted baba,

while listening to 

the story of how 

Siva drank halahal 

and saved the world 

from a certain death 

and suffered the 

excruciating agony 

silently for the 

mankind, earning the 

name “Neelkanth”,

to the temple with 

an ochre coloured 

shikhar and a 

golden Kalash, 

and a big Peepal 

tree wrapped with 

red mouli of devotion

and a lingam where 

rich and poor, 

men and women 

stood in a queue silently

waiting for their turn 

praying to the God 

to drink the poison 

from their lives

yet again. 

Invaluable gifts (haiku)

I

What do I love more

the Vietnam pearls of my mom

or the carved jewel box. 

II

Perforated sheet

a window to different climes

Dad’s stamp collection.

Hariyali Teej

If my grandmother

could have her way,

she wouldn’t 

let our lady sweeper Dulari 

enter the kitchen 

Or even clean her room.

Admonishment by our father,

veiled criticism by mom,

and outright revolt by us

led us nowhere but to

a blind or rather deaf alley. 

But as the skies filled

with dark pregnant clouds 

promising to slake the thirst

Of the earth and even 

our very parched hearts, 

We could see our Amma

giggling like a small girl, 

sharing ghevar with Dulari, 

getting intricate henna patterns 

drawn on her hand and feet

enjoying the courtyard swing 

on the day of Hariyali Teej.

Mt. Fuji

 

As the Shinkansen 

picked up the speed, 

and the forest of 

buildings 

gave way to 

a myriad flaming 

maple leaves 

which kissed its 

divine feet, 

and cradled hundreds 

of Torii gated shrines,

I saw Fuji Yama 

reflected in its 

five grand lakes, 

as it stood tall, 

crafted with a 

hand divine, 

majestic, calm, pure 

not very far from 

the sea of humanity 

and yet so tranquil,

So inspiring, so eternal, 

and so very cardinal 

So much like 

the Sun 

in a solar system.

My grandpa’s stories

Night after night

A rainbow bridge 

magically appeared 

and took me to a wonderland 

of stories where 

an upright woodcutter

won it all;

axes of all metals

much to the envy 

of his avaricious 

neighbour who gets 

suitably chastised

losing even his iron one.

There were birds

that sang of Krishna

who redeemed Sudama

from poverty,

surprising him as 

His grace turned his 

humble hut into 

an opulent palace. 

There were trees that

bore sweet stories of 

simple Alibaba 

who opens 

the cave portal with 

an arcane “open seasame” 

but takes only enough 

to sustain his needs. 

Lost in these 

I didn’t realise when 

this enchanted realm 

gave way to that 

of dreams, 

settled cozily in 

the warmth of my

Baba’s arms 

as he sat in his

wooden rocking chair.

The parrot called Harial

Yes, it’s an unimaginative name. 

But the choice was between

the ubiquitous Mitthu  

or this very generic one. 

So just to defy everyone’s 

boring wishes like 

a rebellious six year old, 

I named him Harial 

as my sister and I 

nursed him back to health

when we found him 

next to the Neem tree, 

wounded and unable to fly. 

Trying to be vets, 

we applied Soframycin 

hoping it would heal him

as it healed all our boo-boos.

Feeding him with grains 

of rice and green chilly 

to make his bland food tastier.

Hoping to make a pet of him

till he flew away 

perhaps to his awaiting 

parrot or human family.

Hairstylist

I loved it when my son

caressed my hair 

as I requested him 

to style my hair

feigning an inability.

His five year old hands 

would make this 

wondrous mess of 

Medusa like tangles, 

just like I did years ago

when I tied tens of

little fountains of hair

on my dad’s sleeping head

with colourful rubber bands.

A pale lilac cardigan

My mom loved to dress me 

in all shades of colour yellow.

She said it reminded her 

of the happiness as one sees 

the fields of mustard

swaying gently under

the amicable winter sun. 

But I think it was 

an attempt

to make my dark earthy skin 

look brighter and lighter. 

I also remember her

fighting tooth and nail 

trying to foil my attempts 

at buying a pale lilac cardigan 

which she thought, 

brought out the dusk of my skin,

blurting out her objections 

rather bluntly,

exasperated at my adamancy, 

and made faces 

every winter as I chose 

to wear it oftener than 

her favourite turmeric one.

Now it lies in her sandook 

as a priced possession, 

a relic from the past, 

as a memory of our banter.

Aspirant

What would pearly gates 

of the veritable heaven

look like to an aspirant 

of the Public service exam? 

I remember 

sitting in the corner 

of the last reading room 

in A.C. Joshi library 

nestled in the very heart

of the sprawling campus 

of Panjab University,

amidst a hundred others

whose eyes were glued to

the notes and books 

or sometimes stared vacantly 

at the wall or the glass panes, 

And lips moving perhaps 

to internalise what was read

or, perhaps in a silent 

prayer to the God Almighty,

reading and re-reading 

editorials from the Hindu, 

old and new NCERTs, 

yearbooks from Publication Division 

magazines like Yojana 

writing copious notes 

and critical essays, 

pestering professors, seniors

and previous years’ successful candidates 

for tips, shortcuts and 

their formula of success. 

Sometimes, we walked aimlessly

eyeing the romancing Enfields

and Kinetic Hondas, 

And then reminding ourselves 

of a far superior goal, 

Getting restless reflecting at the

options or rather the lack of them, 

dreaming of the white simplicity

of the elegant Dholpur House.

At Mandore Gardens

Deep within the walnutty 

crevices of our brains,

lie the pearl of memories

whose eternal ashes  

serve as a cooling salve 

to our scorched souls. 

One such memory is that

of a mellow afternoon

in the middle of deep winters,

when no words were 

necessary as we walked

hand in hand, admiring 

the symmetry and marvelling

at the sandstoned grandeur 

of the royal cenotaphs, 

listening to the hauntingly 

beautiful but ubiquitous 

notes of “Kesariya Balam” 

being played on Ravanhattha 

by a Bhopa musician.

My grandpa (Baba)

 

My earliest memory 

is that of crying 

inconsolably over my 

swirly lacy sky-blue 

frock that got stained by

the petrol fumes of 

our old Ambassador car, 

and being picked by

those not so strong arms

of my fragile-looking Baba

who immediately promised 

to buy another swirlier,

lacier and more blue one 

in the colour of a limitless 

open sky where my dreams 

and imagination would fly

like an intrepid bird.

Revisiting my old house now on sale

My old house must have 

swallowed a magical mushroom

to have diminished so.

The giant sentinels of

Weeping bottlebrush, 

Pomegranate and Frangipani

that once guarded us 

now seem but average trees

which even in full bloom 

fail to create the euphoria 

felt as we married off 

our dolls under their 

benevolent canopies. 

The veranda with the 

circular arches 

that remained hidden 

by the chick curtains

like a shy bride under 

the full gaze of summer sun,

where we sat waiting 

for our turn to get our hair 

oiled by mom every weekend, 

now disappeared to make 

extra rooms perhaps to 

accommodate the growing 

family of its erstwhile owners. 

The garden where bloomed 

Cosmos flowers pink and orange

interspersed with Nasturtiums, 

Poppies and tall Hollyhocks 

where we chased butterflies

and cringed away from 

the garden geckos, 

now has been cemented over

to perhaps give the previous owners 

more parking space 

to their increasing fleet 

of budget and luxury cars.

it’s only the backyard 

jackfruit tree

under whose shade, my grandpa sat 

on his comfortable folding chair, 

poring over the Urdu edition

of the daily newspaper

that remains the same, 

But then again, without 

his presence, Not quite so.

Going to Nani house in Delhi-6 in early 90s

In the narrow lanes 

that branched out 

like capillaries from 

the main aorta of 

the once opulently

resplendent Chandni Chowk,

before the wafts from 

the succulent jalebi, 

and of the sonth poured 

magnanimously in the 

leafy cups full of yoghurt 

based creamy and minty chaat

could reach our young nostrils, 

we were whisked away 

quickly by our genie mother 

as if on a magic carpet 

as we saw bazaars full of 

trimmings and tinsels, 

the silver ornaments, 

glass chandeliers, 

vats of attars and heaps of

ground and whole spices, 

so tantalisingly close 

and yet so unreachable 

due to the expert dexterity 

of our mother and her kin 

who only stopped at 

the entrance of this 

tottering Haveli which had 

certainly been imposing once.

But, now swarming with 

people of all hues and 

dialects occupying its

multiple rooms that 

were spread around a 

multi-storied chowk and

were interconnected in 

ways totally alien to the 

privacy loving and

“Me-time” demanding 

current generation. 

II 

After many rounds of greetings 

and touching of elders feet 

to their gentle chiding 

that girls don’t touch the 

parents feet,

And, after many rounds of 

home made kadi chawal 

and a sneaky snack 

of Top Ramen and orange 

flavoured Rasna, 

hours of school gossips 

and boasting of our 

excellent academic grades, 

as the heat subsided, 

we headed to our Sanjhi terrace

to witness the most interesting 

soap opera romance conjuring 

right in front of our  eyes, 

as the dusky and fair didis 

who came out to dry 

chana papad and moong 

mangodis  on tarpaulins 

received lovesick looks 

from the kite-flying tall, 

handsome but gawky 

bhaiyas , 

causing flutters of butterfly 

in our tender stomachs,

giving us vicarious pleasures

much to the chagrin

of our all knowing mothers

giving us those stinky eyes 

and ordering us to run 

their sundry errands. 

III 

 

As the sun dipped behind 

the old minarets and new 

haphazard encroachments, 

thousands of pigeons, parrots 

and even tiny sparrows filled 

the sky in kinetic patterns 

forever changing and yet 

so heart warmingly assuring 

as we cleaned our part 

of the terrace and cooled

the baked floor with 

mugs full of water, 

our senses heady with 

the thirst-quenching aroma 

of the water drenched bricks, 

as we spread cotton filled 

mattresses, bolster pillows 

and newly washed top sheets 

and stationed surahis

along with different

shaped steel tumblers.

And after evening Aarti 

and watching 6 songs of Chitrahar 

along with ever increasing 

number of advertising films, 

and a rare treat of vanilla 

cup brought by our Mamaji, 

and hours of spooky 

stories that were fabricated 

almost extemporaneously 

until warned by elders 

of dire consequences like

cancelling of our favourite 

nagori puri and halva 

for the following day, 

we gave much needed 

respite to their ears 

and traced the constellations 

with our little fingers, 

outlining the Orion 

and the Ursa Major 

in a midnight blue sky

till the dreams invaded our eyes.

On Sheetala ashtami (Basoda)

In the cooler days

of March, 

when the sun is but

a timid boy 

who loves to play

peekaboo with the

undulating dunes, 

and the village women, 

in the brightest chunaris

with the  mirror work 

reflecting the soft beams

of the benign sun, 

moved around the barren land 

collecting paltry produce 

from the Thar xerophytes

and the camels sit lazily 

filling their humps 

readying themselves 

for further adventures 

across the barren landscape, 

people begin to arrive 

in hordes

in rickety jeeps, 

on camel carts, 

on tractor trolleys

in ramshackled buses

to this sleepy hamlet

for the annual fair 

to honour Shitala Ma. 

When women young and old

having prepared the prasad

the previous day, 

offer curd, ghaat raabdi, 

Bajra khichdi, Kair sangri,

missi roti and gulgule

to the goddess 

as they sing folk ditties

seeking the boon of 

good health and freedom

from the poxes, measles

skin diseases and 

pestilences for their 

offsprings and loved ones, 

while their ecstatic children

fed on the cold feast

enjoy the rapturous rides

in ferris wheels, toy trains

and the country carousel.

The treats outside our school

The sweetest sound those days

was that of the gong 

that put an end to the

last stretched hours 

at the school when the 

teachers droned on 

and the keen types 

finished their homework 

and we dreamt with 

the eyes wide open 

of the mouth watering 

treats that were displayed 

on cycle carriers, carts 

and even thelas. 

Treats that were prepared

with not so clean hands and 

ingredients absolutely doubtful, 

but the lure of the tamarind 

and rock salt churan and 

the mango pulp candies

brought out smiles that 

were perfect with 

imperfect set of 

half milk-half permanent teeth. 

The fried papads, 

salted phalsa berries and 

boiled corn cobs enticed

the kids enough to not 

drop their precious rupee 

coins in the piggy banks 

but splurge them all here.

And, as we tried to fit 

those mashed potatoes and 

lemony mint water filled 

 patase in our little mouths, 

it was the unsophisticated 

shaved ice golas infused with 

sherbets in myriad colours 

and flavours that melted the 

hearts of even our mathematics 

and PT teachers who 

were seen giggling 

as they relished the wickedly 

tangy Kala Khatta sorbets. 

- Neha Bansal 

Lohri

As the flames 

leapt skywards

a fountain of 

warm orange 

brought colour 

to our cheeks 

and thawed our 

icy limbs 

on this cold 

wintry night 

and as the shells 

of peanuts and 

the sesame of 

gajjak - rewadis 

crackled to 

celebrate the 

coming of 

joyous harvest 

season as the sun 

geared northwards

bequeathing on us a 

veritable cornucopia 

of burnished wheat,

juicy sugarcane and 

golden yellow mustard,

we sang the

folk ditties and asked 

our neighbours and

elders for tasty treats

and in the mellow 

comfort of a 

sacred bonfire 

danced to the 

rhythmic beats of the

traditional dholkis. 

And, as the night

deepened into 

a darker hue 

and the red embers 

of the bonfire 

glowed like 

after-thoughts, 

we reluctantly went 

to our beds after

glassfuls of jaggeried

turmeric milk, 

dreaming of next day’s 

kite flying on our roofs

and the breakfast of 

savoury khichdi 

and the Batís baked 

in the leftover 

cinders of the fire 

the night before.

Weekends in Carnicobar

As the golden beams 

of a tropical sun danced

against our window pane

and the roosters of our

Nicobarese neighbours

would join the nature’s 

Orchestra, it was our son

who with his cheery alacrity 

would be so ready for his

weekend morning at 

Kinyuka village’s beach 

where silver sand stretched

like whispers in the breeze

and the shades of cerulean,

cyan, teal and turquoise 

made the homogenous 

azure skies so envious. 

As our young one fought

the imaginary sea monsters

and defended valiantly 

the loyal subjects of 

his shell-adorned sand fort, 

we would sit on the warm 

white sand to soak in the 

calm and appreciate the 

rhythm of this slow

sweet life and watched 

for hours in an unhurried serenity 

as the Nicobarese men 

leisurely fished just enough

for their family’s need 

from their arcanely decorated 

single-outriggered narrow canoes. 

  

The noon arrived unassumingly 

with a glistening sharp sun 

and the lazy wind that refused

to blow inwards,

playing hide and seek instead

with the shore based 

casuarina trees. 

And after many small naps 

and reading and re-reading 

of previous day’s newspapers 

and having filled our tummies

with the Bengali, Rajasthani, 

Nicobarese and Tamil food 

from our potluck lunch 

in an isolated isle without 

a single restaurant 

and after singing to our 

heart’s content 

often tunelessly with 

with homely karaoke mics, 

we would drive down 

the narrow serpentine road 

which traced along that 

wondrous shoreline to witness 

the tangerine sunsets

when a riot of fiery orange, 

vermillion and scarlet 

against a gang of exotic

purples, mauves and lilacs

painted the beach of Passa

like God’s own canvas 

making it now the turn 

of the velvety sea 

to turn dark with envy. 

The twilight lasted just 

long enough 

to appreciate the Cicada’s 

mournful song. 

And as we drove further 

the night deepened in 

its inky glory. 

No light pollution veiled

the cosmic dance 

witnessed by us 

as we lied supine on 

Pandanus-leafed, handcrafted 

Nicobarese mats near Kimious bridge

And as these myriad stars 

filled the inverted sky-bowl 

like hordes of fireflies, 

we closed our eyes 

to etch this memory 

deep within forever.